So Katy and I put our heads together and tried to devise the best game plan for killing Waffle. We debated over which traps to use. Katy wanted something humane. I wanted something gruesome and painful looking.
We compromised on a trap that was gruesome, yet tastefully concealed within a small black container…so you don’t have to witness the gore (snoozesville if you ask me).
We were both pleased with ourselves when Katy brought the traps home. She set them and put them in the kitchen as I watched. “See you in hell, Waffle” I said, and then a minute later added “…from Heaven.”
I rushed out of bed the next morning, but found nothing. Nothing for a week. And then one morning, Katy called me from the hallway. “You will never believe this.”
She stood hovering over one of the traps. I joined her, and was amazed by what I saw. The lid to the concealed trap had been removed and placed about 6 or 7 inches away. The rest had been dissembled, and the food in the center was gone.
“I’m scared” I told Katy.
“Me too.” she said, as we huddled next to each other.
So that night, when I returned from work I went straight to the mouse trap section of our local grocery store (which, I might add, had quite a large selection…not a good sign). Forget this fancy pant trap shit, I thought to myself. I bought a stack of the old fashion kind. The label had a dancing cartoon mouse with X’s for eyes. It therefore had to be good.
I took the traps home, and Katy and I sat down at the kitchen table to load them. For over 40 minutes, she and I struggled to set just one. They were constructed with only three pieces. How could it be this confusing? Every time I thought I had conquered the trap, the bar would come crashing onto my thumb. Same went for Katy, who while clutching her bruised and swollen fingers, looked at me with tears in her eyes and said “We are two college educated kids. Why can’t we figure this out?”
Finally Katy figured one out, and together we set the rest and placed them around the apartment. Two in the hall closet and two in the kitchen. And yet another week went by with no capture. Katy had seen Waffle running across the kitchen counter, so we reluctantly put a trap up there. Another week or two and still nothing. I said to Katy, “I wonder if he moved out?”
“Oh yeah?” she said, leading me into the kitchen. “Then what’s THIS!?” She pointed to a small piece of mouse droppings on the counter top. What I couldn’t get was why would she let mouse shit sit on top of the counter without cleaning it up. “Are you saving this to prove to me we have a mouse?” I asked.
We decided that maybe the peanut butter was maybe not the best bait. After weeks of sitting out, it had grown hard and crusty. I crumbled up an entire cookie and sprinkled its crumbs over the trap on the counter. How could a mouse resist a cookie?
The next morning, I ran to the trap to see if my scheme had worked. The trap was empty. And by empty, I mean of everything. An entire cookie’s worth of crumbs…gone. Even the crusty peanut butter was gone. That trap was licked clean. How could that even be possible? How could Waffle get his head right in the most sensitive part of the trap and not set it off?
“Did you ever read that book about the country mice and the city mice?” Katy asked me. “Here’s the thing. We’re dealing with city mice, and frankly Chris, you and me…we’re the simple country mice.”
I had had it. I was ready to admit defeat and throw in the towel. We would have to call in professionals, or just accept Waffle as our third roommate.
Defeated, I went to bed. The comfort I had felt before Kathy had come visit had long been replaced with a sense of disgust and unease. I was sharing my apartment with disgusting, diseased animals, and there was nothing I could do about it. I awoke, and with my head hung down, I walked towards the bathroom. In route, I saw a grey lump out of the corner of my eye lying atop the counter.
A mixture of joy and repulsion filled my stomach. There was Waffle, on top of the counter, crushed under the trap's heavy arm. We had caught him. After he had licked the trap clean, he had greedily come back for more. And now he was dead. Dead and most likely burning in Hell where he belonged.
I got close to him, and starting down at his long tail, I screamed like a frighten little girl. Katy came running out of the bathroom. “Did we catch Waffle?” Together we rejoiced.
“I can’t believe we finally caught him,” I said as I opened up the closet to get out the broom to sweep the remains off the counter. As I opened the door, I screamed again. Katy poked her head into the closet “Looks like we caught Pancake as well…”
We had placed a third trap in the far back end of the closet. At this time, it was concealed, so Katy grabbed the broom and pulled it into view. As she pulled it, we saw another long tail dragging behind it. We were running out of breakfast foods to name them after.
We were confused as to how to feel. On one hand, we had killed three mice in one night. On the other, we had been working under the misguided conception that we had been dealing with one mouse. I think deep down, we both understood that there were more, and our slaughter had forced to face reality.
We compromised on a trap that was gruesome, yet tastefully concealed within a small black container…so you don’t have to witness the gore (snoozesville if you ask me).
We were both pleased with ourselves when Katy brought the traps home. She set them and put them in the kitchen as I watched. “See you in hell, Waffle” I said, and then a minute later added “…from Heaven.”
I rushed out of bed the next morning, but found nothing. Nothing for a week. And then one morning, Katy called me from the hallway. “You will never believe this.”
She stood hovering over one of the traps. I joined her, and was amazed by what I saw. The lid to the concealed trap had been removed and placed about 6 or 7 inches away. The rest had been dissembled, and the food in the center was gone.
“I’m scared” I told Katy.
“Me too.” she said, as we huddled next to each other.
So that night, when I returned from work I went straight to the mouse trap section of our local grocery store (which, I might add, had quite a large selection…not a good sign). Forget this fancy pant trap shit, I thought to myself. I bought a stack of the old fashion kind. The label had a dancing cartoon mouse with X’s for eyes. It therefore had to be good.
I took the traps home, and Katy and I sat down at the kitchen table to load them. For over 40 minutes, she and I struggled to set just one. They were constructed with only three pieces. How could it be this confusing? Every time I thought I had conquered the trap, the bar would come crashing onto my thumb. Same went for Katy, who while clutching her bruised and swollen fingers, looked at me with tears in her eyes and said “We are two college educated kids. Why can’t we figure this out?”
Finally Katy figured one out, and together we set the rest and placed them around the apartment. Two in the hall closet and two in the kitchen. And yet another week went by with no capture. Katy had seen Waffle running across the kitchen counter, so we reluctantly put a trap up there. Another week or two and still nothing. I said to Katy, “I wonder if he moved out?”
“Oh yeah?” she said, leading me into the kitchen. “Then what’s THIS!?” She pointed to a small piece of mouse droppings on the counter top. What I couldn’t get was why would she let mouse shit sit on top of the counter without cleaning it up. “Are you saving this to prove to me we have a mouse?” I asked.
We decided that maybe the peanut butter was maybe not the best bait. After weeks of sitting out, it had grown hard and crusty. I crumbled up an entire cookie and sprinkled its crumbs over the trap on the counter. How could a mouse resist a cookie?
The next morning, I ran to the trap to see if my scheme had worked. The trap was empty. And by empty, I mean of everything. An entire cookie’s worth of crumbs…gone. Even the crusty peanut butter was gone. That trap was licked clean. How could that even be possible? How could Waffle get his head right in the most sensitive part of the trap and not set it off?
“Did you ever read that book about the country mice and the city mice?” Katy asked me. “Here’s the thing. We’re dealing with city mice, and frankly Chris, you and me…we’re the simple country mice.”
I had had it. I was ready to admit defeat and throw in the towel. We would have to call in professionals, or just accept Waffle as our third roommate.
Defeated, I went to bed. The comfort I had felt before Kathy had come visit had long been replaced with a sense of disgust and unease. I was sharing my apartment with disgusting, diseased animals, and there was nothing I could do about it. I awoke, and with my head hung down, I walked towards the bathroom. In route, I saw a grey lump out of the corner of my eye lying atop the counter.
A mixture of joy and repulsion filled my stomach. There was Waffle, on top of the counter, crushed under the trap's heavy arm. We had caught him. After he had licked the trap clean, he had greedily come back for more. And now he was dead. Dead and most likely burning in Hell where he belonged.
I got close to him, and starting down at his long tail, I screamed like a frighten little girl. Katy came running out of the bathroom. “Did we catch Waffle?” Together we rejoiced.
“I can’t believe we finally caught him,” I said as I opened up the closet to get out the broom to sweep the remains off the counter. As I opened the door, I screamed again. Katy poked her head into the closet “Looks like we caught Pancake as well…”
We had placed a third trap in the far back end of the closet. At this time, it was concealed, so Katy grabbed the broom and pulled it into view. As she pulled it, we saw another long tail dragging behind it. We were running out of breakfast foods to name them after.
We were confused as to how to feel. On one hand, we had killed three mice in one night. On the other, we had been working under the misguided conception that we had been dealing with one mouse. I think deep down, we both understood that there were more, and our slaughter had forced to face reality.
We took turns sweeping their carcasses into the trash can. As Katy swept hers, the little mouse body kept getting caught on the lip of can. Repeatable, she banged the deceased mouse hard against the plastic container, before finally getting it to go in.
We held each other’s hands as we carried the trash bag to the street corner. We walked to the curb with a sense of accomplishment, like the victors of an epic battle. Oh, the wars not over, I'm sure. But I just hope mice think twice about sticking their nose in my apartment.
The END (?)
